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Now that Roger is retired but Rafa isn’t, Roger realizes that he can make teasing his boyfriend a full-time pursuit instead of just a side hobby. Mirka is resigned to this, just like she is resigned to all of her husband’s antics. She and Rafa have come to a mutual understanding, the negotiations of which basically involved Mirka asking “Do you want to fuck my husband?” and Rafa spitting his water all over the sideline and Roger collapsed on the bench laughing his ass off.
So. They had a joint custody agreement on Roger, which meant Roger had free rein to harass Rafa whenever and wherever he wanted. Even here on the hallowed grounds of the All England Club, the day before the men’s final. Apparently when your name is on the champions board eight times, no one is going to point out that the practice courts are reserved for tournament players only.
Mirka sets up on a bench with her sunglasses and her phone; she takes no responsibility for whatever might come out of her husband’s mouth. Rafa is a big boy, he can handle it.
“You looked really good in the semi yesterday,” Roger tells Rafa from behind his own pair of sunglasses. He has his arms spread across the back of the bench and an ankle propped on his knee, looking relaxed as you please as he watches Rafa work.
“Thank you,” says Rafa between easy returns. He’s just getting warmed up, not even rallying for real yet.
“You know, since I’ve retired, I’ve come to realize how much sex you miss out on when you play in these tournaments.”
Rafa nearly shanks an easy backhand. It hits the pole and rolls off, and Titin has to go get it. He throws a glare at Roger, who grins easily.
“No, no, just think about it! The qualifying rounds last a few days, so you can have sex after a match and it won’t affect your performance because you have time before the next one. First round and second round aren’t usually too challenging, so you could afford to lose a little edge. But once you get past third round, the schedule tightens and you have matches every other day, like boom-boom-boom-boom,” he says, making a chopping motion with one hand. “That’s more than a week without sex. You get a lot of pent-up energy and frustration. I’m starting to think that it’s not good for you.”
“I am not listening to you,” says a very-obviously-listening Rafa.
“No seriously, hear me out,” says Roger, leaning forward with his most reasonable expression. “When your body is relaxed and you feel good, you play better. I know this from personal experience.”
Mirka absently smacks him on the arm. She’s still typing with her other hand.
Rafa resolutely pretends that he can’t hear any of this. So does the rest of Rafa’s training team.
Undeterred, Roger throws Rafa his winningest grin.
“I’m just saying, this is an area that your team can't help you with, but I’m available later tonight if you need any relaxation therapy.”
This time Rafa totally whiffs.
“Oh for fuck's sake, do NOT fuck him before a final! I need him mean and angry,” Moya yells from the other side.
Roger, because he’s a little shit, dissolves in a fit of laughter. Rafa’s face is bright red. Mirka rolls her eyes and keeps typing on her phone.